Convicted
Page 96
With each step toward Claire’s room, Meredith questioned that ability. She assumed that, with Claire’s new uncooperative state and today’s excessive use of sedation, tonight’s dinner could go less than smooth. Taking a deep breath, Meredith knocked respectfully and slowly opened Claire’s door. It wasn’t as though she expected a greeting.
Claire was alone. The people who helped her bathe and dress were gone; however, she wasn’t sitting in her normal seat by the window. She was pacing near her bed. Despite Meredith’s knock and greeting, Claire didn’t turn or acknowledge her entrance.
Something about Claire looked different—determined—purposeful. Meredith saw the straightness of her posture and clenching of her jaw. Each time she changed direction on her invisible track—back and forth—Meredith saw an intensity in her eyes. Meredith hadn’t seen that look for a long time; however, she had seen it before. It was the expression Claire wore during the hours recalling difficult times in her and Anthony’s relationship. Even then, when she’d repeat a particularly bad time, Meredith remembered Claire’s expression—it was as if she were seeing the scene before her, which wasn’t visible to anyone else. That was the exact expression Meredith saw now. Years ago, Meredith assumed it to be Claire’s internal debate. She’d agreed to share her story, knew it was accurate, but she felt conflicted, especially later in their interview process as her and Mr. Rawlings’ relationship began its reconciliation.
During those interviews, Meredith waited patiently and allowed Claire the necessary time to sort her thoughts. When she did, Claire would recall the scenarios with eloquence. On some occasions Meredith had to remind herself to type rather than simply listening. Later, when she’d review Claire’s dictation, rarely was there need to change or modify—everything was obviously well deliberated. Watching her now, Meredith wondered what she was thinking.
Meredith placed Claire’s food on her table and called to her, “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. I brought your dinner.” Not surprising, neither Claire’s stance nor pace wavered. If anything, her internal debate intensified—Claire’s step quickened.
Walking slowly toward her friend, Meredith spoke again, “Claire, can you hear me?—You haven’t eaten all day—Aren’t you hungry?” The pacing continued.
As Meredith reached for Claire’s arm, Claire pulled away and momentarily glared. Instinctively, Meredith stepped back to apologize; however, as she did, she realized—Claire had just acknowledged her presence. It wasn’t verbal, but she deliberately pulled away and looked right at her!
Meredith wasn’t sure where the words came from—she didn’t want to hurt her friend; nonetheless, after eight to nine weeks of interaction—or no interaction—Meredith chose to break another rule. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”—no response—“I’ve seen you like this before. I know you’re thinking about Ant”—She started to say Anthony, but remembered Claire referred to him as Tony. During the book interviews, she recalled how that familiar title was a gift, a positive consequence he bestowed upon her while she was still his captive—“I mean, Tony. Claire, it’s all right. You can think about him. Why shouldn’t you think about Tony?”
Each time Meredith uttered his name, Claire’s pace slowed. By the fourth or fifth time, her neck, shoulders, and jaw relaxed. Finally, Meredith tried one more plea, “Claire, Tony would want you to eat. He loved you very much. You don’t want”—she stuttered, wondering if she should say what she was thinking. Swallowing her hesitation, Meredith continued—“You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”
Claire didn’t speak; however, stepping around Meredith, she walked to the table with the food and sat. When she didn’t feed herself, Meredith went to the table, sat opposite her, and lifted the lid on Claire’s plate. “Well, it looks like you have salmon. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” Her eyes didn’t register, and the earlier intensity was gone, but each time Meredith lifted the fork, Claire obediently opened her mouth and ate. The exercise continued slowly—food—food—and then drink. By the time Claire finished, her plate was mostly empty. She didn’t stand and move to the window as she usually did. Instead, her head dropped, and she looked down with her hands demurely resting on her lap, compliant and obedient.
Meredith praised Claire for her cooperation; nevertheless, it wasn’t until she whispered, “I know Tony would be proud of you. Thank you for helping me,” that Claire raised her chin and looked toward the still light sky.
Claire was alone. The people who helped her bathe and dress were gone; however, she wasn’t sitting in her normal seat by the window. She was pacing near her bed. Despite Meredith’s knock and greeting, Claire didn’t turn or acknowledge her entrance.
Something about Claire looked different—determined—purposeful. Meredith saw the straightness of her posture and clenching of her jaw. Each time she changed direction on her invisible track—back and forth—Meredith saw an intensity in her eyes. Meredith hadn’t seen that look for a long time; however, she had seen it before. It was the expression Claire wore during the hours recalling difficult times in her and Anthony’s relationship. Even then, when she’d repeat a particularly bad time, Meredith remembered Claire’s expression—it was as if she were seeing the scene before her, which wasn’t visible to anyone else. That was the exact expression Meredith saw now. Years ago, Meredith assumed it to be Claire’s internal debate. She’d agreed to share her story, knew it was accurate, but she felt conflicted, especially later in their interview process as her and Mr. Rawlings’ relationship began its reconciliation.
During those interviews, Meredith waited patiently and allowed Claire the necessary time to sort her thoughts. When she did, Claire would recall the scenarios with eloquence. On some occasions Meredith had to remind herself to type rather than simply listening. Later, when she’d review Claire’s dictation, rarely was there need to change or modify—everything was obviously well deliberated. Watching her now, Meredith wondered what she was thinking.
Meredith placed Claire’s food on her table and called to her, “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. I brought your dinner.” Not surprising, neither Claire’s stance nor pace wavered. If anything, her internal debate intensified—Claire’s step quickened.
Walking slowly toward her friend, Meredith spoke again, “Claire, can you hear me?—You haven’t eaten all day—Aren’t you hungry?” The pacing continued.
As Meredith reached for Claire’s arm, Claire pulled away and momentarily glared. Instinctively, Meredith stepped back to apologize; however, as she did, she realized—Claire had just acknowledged her presence. It wasn’t verbal, but she deliberately pulled away and looked right at her!
Meredith wasn’t sure where the words came from—she didn’t want to hurt her friend; nonetheless, after eight to nine weeks of interaction—or no interaction—Meredith chose to break another rule. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”—no response—“I’ve seen you like this before. I know you’re thinking about Ant”—She started to say Anthony, but remembered Claire referred to him as Tony. During the book interviews, she recalled how that familiar title was a gift, a positive consequence he bestowed upon her while she was still his captive—“I mean, Tony. Claire, it’s all right. You can think about him. Why shouldn’t you think about Tony?”
Each time Meredith uttered his name, Claire’s pace slowed. By the fourth or fifth time, her neck, shoulders, and jaw relaxed. Finally, Meredith tried one more plea, “Claire, Tony would want you to eat. He loved you very much. You don’t want”—she stuttered, wondering if she should say what she was thinking. Swallowing her hesitation, Meredith continued—“You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”
Claire didn’t speak; however, stepping around Meredith, she walked to the table with the food and sat. When she didn’t feed herself, Meredith went to the table, sat opposite her, and lifted the lid on Claire’s plate. “Well, it looks like you have salmon. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” Her eyes didn’t register, and the earlier intensity was gone, but each time Meredith lifted the fork, Claire obediently opened her mouth and ate. The exercise continued slowly—food—food—and then drink. By the time Claire finished, her plate was mostly empty. She didn’t stand and move to the window as she usually did. Instead, her head dropped, and she looked down with her hands demurely resting on her lap, compliant and obedient.
Meredith praised Claire for her cooperation; nevertheless, it wasn’t until she whispered, “I know Tony would be proud of you. Thank you for helping me,” that Claire raised her chin and looked toward the still light sky.
